


Around You, Within You

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Kissing, Letters, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Protective Sherlock, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Fix-It, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Snowball Fight, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-14 15:26:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15391767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: John slowly runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair; a question he has not yet asked on the edge of his lips. Sherlock knows those lips well enough by now, knows his John well enough by now, to predict with at least eighty-four percent accuracy what the question might be. And he also knows the question might sting those lips when it comes pouring out, and Sherlock would do anything to keep John from feeling pain.(Why did you leave me behind?)Sherlock twines his fingers delicately into John’s, looking into his infinitely loving, infinitely sad eyes, and he answers the question before John can ask.“I did it for you, John. I did it for you.”





	Around You, Within You

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the Always1895 July fic prompt challenge: Johnlock on Holiday. 
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/). Thank you, my darling. ❤
> 
> And as always, thank you to my dear friend [unicornpoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/) for the inspiration and encouragement. ❤

One year ago, Sherlock came home.

Home from the cold Belarusian air; home from the tiny, desolate hotel rooms; home from disbanding Moriarty’s network (home from being dead). Home from the bars and the restaurants and the parks and the markets that seemed overcrowded yet empty still; home from missing the single person that made London feel like home at all.

Eight months later, John came home, too.

John’s homecoming had not been quite the ordeal Sherlock’s had been; it had been much more still, quiet, and unceremonious. A knock at the entryway of 221 Baker Street (Sherlock’s home, _their_ home). Sherlock opening the door before John had even made it up the seventeen steps (he’d know the sound of John’s gait anywhere). John’s sad, tired plea: “Can I move back in?” (as if those words could even be considered a question).

And though it didn’t need to be asked _(This is your home, John, you will always belong here),_ Sherlock had given an answer: a swift, eager embrace that had nearly knocked the air out of their lungs; one that had lingered into a soft, steady kiss that had caused them both to forget they hadn’t always been there.

Now, John kisses Sherlock every single day. He kisses Sherlock as though he’s composing a symphony with every brush of his lips; painting a landscape, performing an aria, writing a sonnet. He kisses Sherlock as though every inch of his body is more precious than gold; as though every kiss will be the last.

John tells Sherlock he loves him every single day, as though he can’t possibly hope to contain the words. Tells him he loves him with more emotions than Sherlock can even name; tells him he loves him as though he’s going to lose him.

One Thursday, before sleep, John holds Sherlock tightly, tightly, tightly, as though he is in danger of slipping through his fingers like quicksand.

“Why are you so afraid, John?” Sherlock asks, leaning back to gaze curiously into John’s cerulean eyes.

“You think I’m afraid?” John asks, as if those eyes hadn’t already given the answer away.

“When you look back at me,” Sherlock says with a soft, burning gravity, “I see infinite love; but the sadness I see is every bit as infinite.”

John slowly runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair; a question he has not yet asked on the edge of his lips. Sherlock knows those lips well enough by now, knows his John well enough by now, to predict with at least eighty-four percent accuracy what the question might be. And he also knows the question might sting those lips when it comes pouring out, and Sherlock would do anything to keep John from feeling pain.

_Why did you leave me behind?_

Sherlock twines his fingers delicately into John’s, looking into his infinitely loving, infinitely sad eyes, and he answers the question before John can ask.

“I did it for you, John. I did it _for you.”_ There’s no need for him to elaborate; John already knows what he means.

“So you’ve said before.” John’s breath and his eyelids grow heavier as he speaks. “I know you did it _for_ me, but once all was said and done—did you even consider what you were doing _to_ me?”

“No,” Sherlock says clearly and honestly. “The only thing I considered was what I needed to do to keep you alive.”

John heaves a sigh, the air tickling Sherlock’s face and lightly stirring his hair, the sadness in his eyes somehow more than infinite. “You save my life by being in it, Sherlock. Not by taking yourself out of it.”

As Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, his heart stills under the heavy weight of sorrow and regret; over the knowledge of his decision’s effect on John, knowledge that he had not had the capacity to see before.

“You didn’t have to do it alone, you know.” John splays his hand over Sherlock’s heart, causing a rush of blood to flow straight to it; returning it to its steady beat. “That’s not how love works. How could you have left me behind, knowing that you loved me?”

Sherlock’s eyes open, and he fixes his gaze onto John’s as firmly as he can. “I didn’t know that I loved you then.” He can’t keep his voice steady, can’t keep his words from fumbling. “I only knew I couldn’t bear to see a world without John Watson in it.”

The smile John gives Sherlock is weak, but entirely genuine, and he leans forward to kiss Sherlock lightly on the forehead. He tells Sherlock that he loves him (like it’s the final stanza of a poem); tells Sherlock that everything is going to be alright. Sherlock already knows this, but he isn’t completely sure that _John_ knows, and he wonders if John is actually trying to convince them both.

 

***

 

John needs to know.

He needs to know that the only reason Sherlock would put himself through the worst two years of his life is to ensure John would have many more years in his.

Sherlock thinks John does know, on some level, but he has yet to actually _see._ And until John knows everything, sees everything about Sherlock’s two years away, though he may love him, he may never be at peace.

“John,” Sherlock says on a Monday as they sit at the dinner table over cold Pad Thai. “Pack your bags. We’re going to Minsk for a case.”

John looks back at Sherlock with slight incredulity; a learned habit over many years of Sherlock delivering news like this at a moment’s notice. “I’ve got work tomorrow, Sherlock. I can’t just take off and go to Belarus whenever I feel like it.”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively, and doesn’t glance up from the paper that he’s reading. “I’ve already taken care of it. Be sure to pack warm clothes; Minsk is quite cold this time of year.”

John doesn’t argue; his lips tug upwards into a smile, and he stands, heading to his wardrobe to retrieve his thickest wool socks.

 

***

 

Minsk is just as cold as Sherlock had remembered it.

As he and John exit the airport, he scoops John into his arms immediately, wrapping them around his lower back and tugging John’s body into his as closely as it will possibly go.

He needs this; requires the glowing warmth and comfort provided by his John. Regardless, the memories seep in. He feels a tiny prickle at the back of his eyes, a shiver running through his body that he plans to blame entirely on the chilly air.

But John is wise, and onto him in a heartbeat: “Sherlock,” he says, a gust of warm breath against Sherlock’s jaw, his fingers tracing soothingly up and down Sherlock’s spine. “We aren’t actually here for a case, are we?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He only buries his face further into the collar of John’s coat and squeezes him in impossibly closer. John exhales steadily, a cloud of frost billowing from his mouth as he strokes the small of Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock’s skin tingles through the bulky layers of clothing.

“Do you want to tell me why we came here, then?” John asks, his tone eternally patient.

“If it’s alright with you,” Sherlock says, burying his words into the soft skin of John’s neck, “I’d like to continue to do _this_ for just a bit longer.”

John sighs again, and he spreads his palms over Sherlock’s back, rubbing them vigorously against his coat to create heat. “Yeah, alright,” he says, his voice crackling with a trace of amusement. “Of course we can continue to do _this,_  but could we possibly continue _this_ somewhere indoors? Sherlock, the sun is down, and it’s really, really cold…”

Sherlock laughs wetly against John’s shoulder, and he squeezes John’s waist before leaning back to look at the man he adores. John smiles up at him with an inexplicable fondness, with thinly veiled amusement, and with infinite love that nearly hides the infinite sadness.

“Allow me,” Sherlock says with a grin as he begins to unfasten his coat. “I think I can provide enough warmth for the both of us.” He unwraps the Belstaff, and John smiles as he snakes his arms beneath the wool and around Sherlock’s waist, and Sherlock pulls him in, enveloping his compact body.

And there they stand, just outside the entrance of the airport, the two of them in their cocoon; shivering as they paint the cool air with their frosty exhalations.

 

***

 

That night, after Sherlock and John leave the airport, they visit a nearby pub in the outer district of Minsk. And as they sit down at the bar, John doesn’t question why; he simply holds Sherlock’s hand as he orders a whisky and coke and Sherlock orders nothing.

After a few silent moments, Sherlock sets his bag onto the bar and opens it, and John watches with a curious fascination. Sherlock retrieves a handwritten letter, creased and water-stained, carefully unfolding it before handing it over to John.

John hesitantly accepts it. He blinks down at the letter, the words slowly coming into focus beneath the low light of the pub.

At the top of the letter is a label, written in bold ink:

 

**November 4th, 2012  | Krinitska Bar**

**where I spent my first of many nights away from John**

 

John stares at the words, his expression tired, confused, and consciously blank. “This is—” His voice is barely a broken whisper. _“This_ is where you stayed while you were away.”

Sherlock nods slowly. John folds the letter up and sets it back on the table without reading any more. “Why?” he asks, on the verge of anger, or perhaps only masking the pain. “Why did you bring me here, and why are you showing me this?”

“Because,” Sherlock says with a soft urgency. “I want you to know everything, see everything. I want you to be free. I want you to look at me without the infinite sadness.”

John blinks again, harshly; his face is flushed and his eyes are tired and bloodshot. “Sherlock,” he whispers. “I… I don’t know what to say about this. A part of me is angry at you for bringing me here—knowing that it may cause me to suffer, but it hurts even more to know that you suffered here _first.”_

John’s hand rests on the table, his fist clenched tightly as he speaks, and Sherlock reaches across to cover it with his own. “I’m not suffering anymore,” he says as John’s hand relaxes under his soothing touch. “You’re here with me now, and that’s why I left you behind.”

“Yes,” John says hesitantly, his eyes fixed on their hands as he turns his over and wraps his fingers weakly around Sherlock’s. “You’re right. I _am here_ with you, Sherlock. And there is no reason for you to endure these memories alone.”

So with his other hand, he takes the letter back and reads it silently; the infinite sadness in his eyes casting a shadow over everything else.

 

_John,_

_Tonight is my first night away from London. It’s cold here in Minsk—something to which I am normally accustomed, but knowing that you’re in London makes here seem much, much colder._

_I wish I could explain to you right here, right now, why I had no other choice than to do what I did. It’s my hope that one day you’ll understand. The only other option would have been to sacrifice your life, and surely, you can see that is not actually an option at all._

_This won’t take long. I’m only searching for the remainder of those left in Moriarty’s network. I’ll be back with you very very soon; back in the warmth of 221B. Until that happens, John, please be well._

_-SH_

 

John sets the letter back down with a quietly reflective expression as he strokes the top of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb. Sherlock watches him for a few moments, unsure of what to say or what to do. He ultimately elects to lean in and press his lips against John’s cheek, and he can feel a slight speck of moisture there; he can taste the tiniest trace of salt on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, voice small and defeated. “This was a terrible idea. Let’s go home. We can do that if you want. John, just tell me what I can do to make it better.”

“No.” John stands suddenly, tightening his grasp on Sherlock’s hand and tugging him up out of the bar stool. “We’re here together,” he says, reaching up to cup Sherlock’s face in his hands. “And together, we can do anything.” He leans in and presses a kiss onto Sherlock’s lips, slow and lingering, and Sherlock smiles softly against his warm mouth.

“John Watson,” Sherlock mumbles as the kiss is broken. “Have you got something particular in mind?”

“Follow me,” John instructs, squeezing his hand for reassurance.

Sherlock hasn’t the faintest idea what John is doing, but as long as he continues to kiss him like that, he knows that he wholeheartedly supports it.

Hand in hand, the two of them walk through the crowd of people, towards the back exit, and into the cold, empty alleyway. Sherlock watches John and he waits; his face hot against the winter breeze, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

John finally turns to look at him, and his bright blue eyes pierce through the dull light. “Sherlock,” he says lowly, causing Sherlock’s stomach to stir with uncontrollable excitement. “Until today, you’ve only ever known this as the place you spent your first night away from me; however, I intend to fix that.”

And he does.

Grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders roughly, he surges forward, sealing their lips together into a hot, wet kiss. Sherlock hums against his lips—a sound of delight, a sound of surprise, a sound of pure bliss—clutching firmly onto the collar of John’s winter coat. John slowly trails his tongue over every inch of Sherlock’s lush, beautiful mouth; and Sherlock gives in, his lips parting with a muted exhalation. Sherlock slides his tongue against John’s, relishing the lingering taste of whisky _(God, this is the best idea John has ever had—)._ John’s fingers thread through Sherlock’s curls, gripping onto them gently; tilting Sherlock’s head downward in order to deepen the kiss.

There are a million sensations that flood through Sherlock’s mind as he and John kiss for a very, very long time; and he willingly becomes the victim of an acute loss of memory. 

 

~~**November 4th, 2012  | Krinitska Bar** ~~

~~**where I spent my first of many nights away from John** ~~

 

**December 8th, 2015 | Krinitska Bar**

**where John and I kissed passionately for an hour and fourteen minutes**

 

***

 

**February 17th, 2013 | Janki Kupaly Park**

**where I realised how long I’d be away from John**

 

_John,_

_Today, the sun is shining, but that doesn’t offer me any comfort; it’s now been three and a half months since I left London._

_I’m currently hunting for a man named Sebastian Moran, who has been hiding in Minsk, and he’s very, very difficult to catch. I came just a bit closer this afternoon, but not quite close enough, I’m afraid._

_I will be away for longer than I had originally expected. Moriarty’s web is much more complex than I ever could have planned for._

_Please forgive me, John. My only solace is knowing that you’re alive and well. And though I can’t tell you exactly how long I will be, I find comfort in knowing that each passing day is one day closer to returning to you._

_Your friend,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

John reads the second letter the following day as the two of them sit on the bench at the park, cold breeze nipping gently at their faces.

“It was a very long time indeed,” John says, running his thumb over the jagged edges of the paper. “Had I known that you were alive, I would have waited for you, you know that? I would have waited for the rest of my life.”

Sherlock’s chest clenches tightly in an all-too-familiar manner; it’s the feeling he gets whenever it occurs to him how much time the two of them have wasted. “I know,” he responds, and he is certain that John is telling him the truth.

John leans over to circle his arms around the back of Sherlock’s neck, enveloping him, pulling him in and hugging him tightly. Sherlock dips his head to rest on John’s shoulder, and they say nothing—simply existing for several drawn out moments—until Sherlock feels a droplet of frozen moisture on the back of his neck.

The two of them look up. The sky is filled with clouds, and snow is floating down in silent, billowy white blankets.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock breathes in amazement.

John smiles at the pure joy on his face before weaving their fingers together. “Did it not snow while you were here before?”

“It snowed a lot,” Sherlock says, pursing his lips together. “Quite a bit. But it’s more beautiful with you.”  The smile on his face is wholly unreserved as he looks back up at the dark, cloudy sky. “John,” he says, almost gleefully. “Can I ask you a very serious question?”

“Of course,” John replies, staring back as snowflakes fall onto Sherlock’s smooth skin, forming white patches in his dark hair.

Sherlock lowers his head, the smile growing ever brighter, and he arches an eyebrow at John. “Have you ever been involved in a snowball fight?” he asks.

John throws his own head backwards and laughs a full, meaningful laugh, straight from his belly. “Yeah, I have. When I was—” Before he can finish, though, he is cut off by a tiny burst of fresh snow pelting onto his chin, and he gasps softly with surprise.

“Oh. John, did that hurt?” Sherlock’s lips immediately press down into John’s chin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think that—” He kisses it in a light, soothing manner, just as an enormous pile of snow collapses on top of his head, and John laughs almost _villainously._   

 _“John!”_ Sherlock quickly ducks down onto John’s chest, crying out loudly at the pure shock and the pure cold and the pure audacity of the man he loves bombarding him like that.

John continues to laugh silently, kissing Sherlock lightly on top of his head. “I’m a soldier, Sherlock,” John reminds him. “Highly skilled in combat. Are you sure that it’s the best idea to take me on?”

Sherlock leans backwards and looks at him; his face forming into a very serious expression that both of them know is a complete ruse. “Good point,” he says, warring against the smile that threatens to tug on his lips. “Perhaps we should simply go for a walk instead.”

“Of course, Darling,” John says, giving him a tight-lipped, coy smile. “If that’s what you’d like to do.”

With a burst of giddy laughter, Sherlock bolts upwards and off of the bench and he _runs._  John watches him run; allowing him a decent head start before kneeling down and scooping as much snow as he can possibly carry in one hand.

 

~~**February 17th, 2013 | Janki Kupaly Park** ~~

~~**where I realised how long I’d be away from John** ~~

 

**December 9th, 2015 | Janki Kupaly Park**

**where John and I had our first snowball fight** ~~**(I won) (John won)** ~~ **(I won)**

 

***

 

**June 8th, 2013 | City Clinical Hospital**

**where I stayed after finally catching Moran**

 

 _Dear John,_  

 _I_ _caught Moran last week. The reason I am only writing this now is because I have been in hospital recovering and was unable to carry out such a task._

_I say that I caught him; well, in fact, he caught me first. I was kept in a holding cell for a while, but it’s alright, now. I’m alright, now._

_It’s not over, yet, I’m afraid. Moran might have been Moriarty’s right hand, but he was only one of many within the great web. So I will continue what I have been doing; hunting them down until I know without a doubt that the world is safe from his grasp._

_John, at the risk of sounding completely mad—I have a confession to make. The entire time I was under Moran’s control, the only thing keeping me sane was the thought of you._

_Your eyes, your laugh, your hair, even your scent. I realise how ridiculous I may sound, but I suppose I am a ridiculous man._

_I wonder every day what you’re doing. Mycroft won’t inform me of anything. He thinks it would be too distracting. Little does he know that it’s far more distracting to worry that you’re well. I hope that he would at least inform me if you weren’t._

_I miss you, John. More than I can say._

_Sincerely,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

The two men stand in the lobby of the hospital amongst the buzz of various strangers. Strangers crying from loss, crying from happiness, worrying, laughing, being broken and being put back together.

“Stay here for a moment.” John takes Sherlock’s face into his hand and runs his thumb over his sharp cheekbone. “I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock’s skin buzzes from John’s touch, his eyes fluttering shut. “Of course. I won’t go anywhere. You know that.” The words are laced with an unintentional double meaning; they carry an accidental weight.

“Yes,” John says, resting his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip, his gaze fixed on the area he is touching. “I do know that.”

He lets his arms fall to his sides and he turns, walking out through the entrance of the building. Eight minutes later, when he returns with an armful of flowers, Sherlock is both delighted and confused; until he recalls the flower vendor they had passed during their walk to the hospital.

John stares at Sherlock patiently, attempting to gauge his reaction; Sherlock’s eyes are wide as he takes in the arrangement before him. There are upwards of twenty different flowers; not a single one the same, but not a single one of them any less beautiful than the rest.

“I got one of every kind,” John finally says. “Because that’s what it’s like, with you and me.”

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows, silently begging for an explanation.

“Each flower has a different story, but they have come together to create something unspeakably beautiful. Something vibrant, something amazing in countless different ways, none of them entirely traditional. They will never be alone, even when they inevitably grow old and wilt away; and when that happens, their beauty won’t fade--it will simply change its form.”

John holds the flowers out to Sherlock, and Sherlock takes them, pulling them in and cradling them against his chest; and he knows that he couldn’t have said it better himself.  

 

~~**June 8th, 2013 | City Clinical Hospital** ~~

~~**Where I stayed after finally catching Moran** ~~

 

**December 9th, 2015 | City Clinical Hospital**

**where John brought me a bouquet of twenty different types of flowers and spewed some sentimental drivel**

 

***

 

**November 13th, 2013 | Ratama Motel**

**where I first discovered that I was in love with John**

 

_Dear John,_

_I’m fairly certain that the person who manages this hotel is a murderer. I’m trying to not let it distract me from the other case I am working on, but... there are likely bodies hidden within the walls._

_I thought of you today when I passed an Italian restaurant. I didn’t go inside, but I realised how much I would enjoy being with you, eating takeout from Angelo’s and bickering over what horrible television we are going to watch._

_Lately, in fact, it’s all that I can do during my downtime: wish that I were next to you. Talking to you, laughing with you. Just being with you, really. It wouldn’t need to be in London; it could be anywhere. I seem to have forgotten the precise colour of your hair, and the sound of your laugh, and the smell of your laundry detergent, and I want—_

_More than anything on earth, I want to know it again._

_John, you may, indeed, already know the depth of my devotion—it is obvious that I care a great deal for you, but I have recently come to terms with the fact that it may be something slightly more complex._

_I miss you all the time, John. I want to return to you, and I want to hold you against my chest, and I want to kiss you. These are things that, by and large, I have never wanted in my life._

_I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner; the truth is, I always knew I had this feeling; I just didn’t know this feeling had a name._

_I am in love with you, John Watson._

_And though you can’t hear or see me say those words, I hope that wherever you may be, you are somehow able to feel them. Somewhere around you, perhaps, or somewhere within you; that you feel warm, and happy, and how deeply loved you are._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is hushed as he softly strokes the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, his cool fingers tracing a line over the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Yes?” Sherlock’s body is pressed into John’s; his long arms draped around the smooth, bare curves of his waist.

“Are we going to be murdered in this hotel room bed?” John asks. He is possibly half-joking.

“No,” Sherlock answers. He is possibly half-sure.

“Good.” John's soft touch turns into a strong, kneading movement, and his voice becomes low, low, low. “Because tonight, I plan to make love to you until the sun comes up, and an attempted murder might get in the way of that."

Sherlock’s eyes drift shut, a small sound of pleasure hitching in his throat. He bites down onto his bottom lip with anticipation, squeezing the flesh of John’s hips. John groans at the dull pain; pressing his warm body firmly and fully into Sherlock’s, and Sherlock keens forward, exhaling a breathy moan.

Sherlock feels a thrill in his abdomen as John cups his jaw with both of his hands; licking into his mouth so earnestly that Sherlock gasps. He slides his wet tongue over Sherlock’s in languid caresses, lips drawing themselves hungrily over every centimetre of hot skin, and Sherlock pants and groans into the velvety cavern of John’s mouth.

John breaks the kiss; his slick tongue sliding out of Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock nearly whimpers at the loss of it. John whirls his tongue down Sherlock’s sweat-slickened throat, circling his Adam’s Apple, planting open-mouthed kisses; and Sherlock clutches with desperation as John breathes onto the hollow dip between his collarbones.

John’s hands move slowly, slowly down Sherlock’s chest, hovering over his nipples, and he begins lightly tracing circles there over the cold, hardening skin. Calloused thumbs brush lightly over both of them in tandem, sending electric shocks through Sherlock’s lower body that cause his hips to surge forward of their own volition.

John’s tongue grazes against one nipple, and then the other; teeth peeking out, tugging, and Sherlock bites down on his own lip hard enough to break skin. Sherlock digs his fingernails into as much of John’s body as he can reach, planting dark red half-moons as he arches into John to the rhythm of each flicker of tongue.

John presses his slick, sweaty skin back into Sherlock’s hips in a repetitive, steady motion that sends Sherlock dangerously close to the edge. John’s mouth wanders down, down, down Sherlock’s body as Sherlock’s fingers slide up, up, up John’s spine, and they both breathe raggedly into the silence of the room. Sweet open-mouthed kisses down Sherlock’s sternum, his abdomen; John’s tongue flat and wet against the cold, bare skin of Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock’s hips grinding forward, backward, forward, backward; his hands, grabbing, clutching, grasping. John’s tongue going further, further, further, down; tracing wet patches of saliva in a line just over Sherlock's waistband.

John’s tongue sliding past the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear; a hoarse groan filling the room as he takes Sherlock’s clothed erection into his mouth. _“John.”_ It’s a gasp, a groan, a cry. Sherlock’s body is completely out of his control and completely under John’s; hips pulsing wildly,  explosively tugging and clutching and grasping onto whatever he can reach.

John’s warm tongue swirls, up and down, up and down, his fingers gliding over Sherlock’s sharp hip bones, drifting, drifting, treacherously slowly, coming down to barely peek beneath Sherlock’s waistband. John teases for a moment; his tongue sliding flatly up and down, the wetness of his saliva mixing with Sherlock’s hot, wet, erection in a tantalising scent that smells of sweat and sex and love.

“John,” Sherlock says again, a whimper, a beg, a plea, as he surges up and down off the bed repeatedly into John’s mouth. In one sharp movement, John’s hands tug at Sherlock’s underwear, pulling them down; and he takes all of Sherlock into his mouth at once. With the feeling of wetness and the warm, slick, velvet of John’s mouth, there’s no holding back; Sherlock is wrecked, pulling at John’s hair in a frenzy as he cries out his name.

John groans and he groans, and Sherlock can _feel_ the deep vibration of his voice at the back of his throat. Sliding and bobbing and wet as his fingers knead into the flesh of Sherlock’s lower back, his tongue dancing over every centimetre, every inch, every sensitive, sensitive piece of skin. His teeth, lightly, lightly, grazing over tight flesh; his tongue swirling and doing tricks that Sherlock can’t even begin to fathom. Suction, unrelenting warmth and wetness; and Sherlock can feel tears brim in his eyes as everything in his lower body becomes flushed with tight, tight heat.

With his release, Sherlock cries out John’s name yet again; a guttural moan into semi-rhythmic pulsations. One pulse, earth-shattering as John groans and savours the taste; two pulses, his tongue relenting as it lazily slides over the loosening skin; three pulses, Sherlock is dazed, and limp, and slowly vibrating, and shaking and shivering and there are tears on his cheeks, and he notices they are on John’s cheeks as well.

“I love you,” John says as he curls up next to Sherlock, their cold, sweat-drenched bodies coming to rest together as they regulate their heartbeats. “And I hope you feel that, too, even when you can’t see or hear me say it. Around you and within you, I hope you feel how deeply loved you are, Sherlock Holmes.”

He kisses Sherlock softly on the shoulder, and Sherlock whispers back to him: “Yes, John. I truly, truly do.”

 

~~**November 13th, 2013 | Ratama Motel** ~~

~~**where I first discovered that I was in love with John** ~~

 

**December 9th, 2015 | Ratama Motel**

**where John made love to me until the sun came up**

 

***

 

**March 4th, 2014 | Minsk Train Station**

**Where I wrote my final letter to John**

 

_My Dear John,_

_Today, sixteen months after arriving in Minsk, I’m moving on to Serbia. I probably won’t be able to write to you again for quite some time._

_I’ve received a message from Mycroft informing me that you’re doing well, which I am infinitely thankful for._

_He says that you’ve found someone, and I am so, so happy for you._

_I know that even if I can’t be with you right now, or possibly ever, that if you’re living your life, things are going to be alright._

_I hope that you find everything in her that you are looking for; and I hope that she finds, in you, the countless treasures that you hold: your laugh, your smile, the colour of your hair, the way you make tea; even the smell of your laundry detergent. And I hope, as well, that she knows the true value of those things, and that she never, ever allows them to fade from her memory._

_John Watson—whatever happens to me from here, please know that I love you with every fibre of my being, and that I will never regret my decision for as long as I live._  

_Always Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

At the train station, John takes Sherlock into his arms and holds him as tightly as he can, seemingly not caring one way or another about oxygen.  

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he whispers raggedly into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock swallows; his throat is chalky, his eyes moist and hot, and he whispers back: “I know, I know, I know.”

Sherlock knows, now, and John knows, now, and perhaps the two of them can finally be free.

“I love you, too, John,” Sherlock continues, “and I will always protect you; I’d do it all again if I had to.”

“You’d better fucking not, Sherlock Holmes,” John says with a growl. “You’d better fucking not. Not. Without. Me.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock says soothingly, resting his chin on top of John’s head. “I'll never leave you behind again.”

“Do you promise me?” John asks with a tremble in his voice.

“I promise you,” Sherlock responds, and truer words had never been spoken.

“Good. Because—” John lowers his head and he slowly reaches into his coat pocket. His breathing is quick, his hands are trembling, and Sherlock thinks, with this utter candidness, he has never been more beautiful. “I’ve never been very good at this,” John utters, voice wrecked and nervous. “I wish I could give you a proper… well, you know.”

John removes his hand from his pocket, and in it, he holds a small black box. “God,” he says, tripping over his words. “Why does this have to be so... I just... I love you so much, and...  _fuck._ ” His eyes are wet, and he squeezes the box in his hands so that he doesn’t drop it from trembling so hard. “Sherlock,” he says roughly. “I was really hoping that we could—”

“Yes.” Sherlock replies simply. “And whatever you ask of me, John, for the rest of our lives, that’s what my answer will always be _.”_

John opens the box; taking out a gold ring that he slips steadily onto Sherlock’s finger; the nervousness and trembling and fear miraculously gone.

Gone are the memories of Minsk that Sherlock had created during his two years away. Gone is the infinite sadness in John’s eyes.

Sherlock’s heart is now full with the new memories he and John have made, and with the promise of many years left to create.

 

~~**March 4th, 2014 | Minsk Train Station** ~~

~~**Where I wrote my final letter to John** ~~

 

**December 10th, 2015 | Minsk Train Station**

**where John and I began the rest of our lives**

 

***

 

**November 1st, 2014 | London**

**The day I returned home to John**

  _My Dear John,_

_I’m here._

_I’m in London._

_I’m not dead._

_And in a few hours, I will finally see you._

_I cannot predict what will happen.  Perhaps nothing will change. Perhaps you will hate me, and you will curse the day I came into your life—or the day that I left it. Perhaps we will continue to be friends, or work partners, or flatmates, or even mere acquaintances._

_Perhaps I will even be lucky enough to be yours, and this is the day we can begin our lives together._

_I will gladly take any of them._

_Because I am not dead, and you are not dead, and now, we are not dead in the same place at the same time._

_And that, my dear John, is why I left you behind._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

**November 1st, 2014 | London**

**The day I returned home to John**

 

*******

 

**November 1st, 2016 | London**

**The day I became John’s husband**


End file.
